William Tenn - Party of the Two Parts

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Party of the Two Parts

William Tenn

GALACTOGRAM FROM STELLAR SERGEANT O-DIK-VEH, COMMANDER OF

OUTLYING PATROL OFFICE 1OO1625, TO HEADQUARTERS DESK SERGEANT

HOY-VEH-CHALT, GA-LACTIC PATROL HEADQUARTERS ON VEGA XXI—(PLEASE

NOTE: THIS IS TO BE TRANS-MITTED AS PERSONAL, NOT OFFICIAL, MESSAGE

AND AS SUCH WILL BE CHARGED THE USUAL HYPERSPACE RATES)

My Dear Hoy:

I am deeply sorry to trouble you again, but, Hoy, am I in a jam! Once more, it's not something that I

did wrong, but something I didn't do right—what the Old One is sure to wheeze is "a patent dereliction of

obvious duty." And since I'm positive he'll be just as confused as I, once the prisoners I'm sending on by

slow light-transport arrive (when he reads the official report that I drew up and am transmitting with them,

I can see him dropping an even dozen of his jaws), I can only hope that this advance message will give

you enough time to consult the best legal minds in Vegan Headquarters and get some sort of solution

worked out.

If there's any kind of solution available by the time he reads my report, the Old One won't be nearly

as angry at my dumping the problem on his lap. But I have an uneasy, persistent fear that Headquarters is

going to get as snarled up in this one as my own office. If it does, the Old One is likely to remember what

happened in Out-lying Patrol Office 1001625 the last time—and then, Hoy, you will be short one

spore-cousin.

It's a dirty business all around, a real dirty business. I use the phrase advisedly. In the sense of

obscene, if you follow me.

As you've no doubt suspected by now, most of the trouble has to do with that damp and irritating

third planet of Sol, the one that many of its inhabitants call Earth. Those damned chittering bipeds cause

me more sleeplessness than any other species in my sector. Sufficiently advanced technologically to be

almost at Stage 15—self-devel-oped interplanetary travel—they are still centuries away from the usually

concur-rent Stage 15A—friendly contact by the galactic civilization.

They are, therefore, still in Secretly Supervised Status, which means that I have to maintain a staff of

about two hundred agents on their planet, all encased in clumsy and uncomfortable protoplasmic

disguises, to prevent them from blowing their silly selves up before the arrival of their spiritual millennium.

On top of everything, their solar system only has nine planets, which means that my permanent

headquarters office can't get any farther away from Sol than the planet they call Pluto, a world whose

winters are bearable, but whose summers are unspeak-ably hot. I tell you, Hoy, the life of a stellar

sergeant isn't all gloor and skubbets, no matter what Rear Echelon says.

In all honesty, though, I should admit that the difficulty did not originate on Sol III this time. Ever

since their unexpected and uncalled-for development of nuclear fission, which, as you know, cost me a

promotion, I've doubled the number of un-dercover operatives on the planet and given them stern

warning to report the slight-est technological spurt immediately. I doubt that these humans could invent so

much as an elementary time-machine now, without my knowing of it well in advance.

No, this time it all started on Rugh VI, the world known to those who live on it as Gtet. If you

consult your atlas, Hoy, you'll find Rugh is a fair-sized yellow dwarf star on the outskirts of the galaxy,

and Gtet an extremely insignificant planet which has only recently achieved the status of Stage

19—primary interstellar citizenship.

The Gtetans are a modified amoeboid race who manufacture a fair brand of ashkebac, which they

export to their neighbors on Rugh IX and XII. They are a highly individu-alistic people and still

experience many frictions living in a centralized society. Despite several centuries of advanced civilization,

most Gtetans look upon the Law as a de-lightful problem in circumvention rather than as a way of life.

An ideal combination with my bipeds of Earth, eh?

It seems that a certain L'payr was one of the worst troublemakers on Gtet. He had committed

almost every crime and broken almost every law. On a planet where fully one-fourth of the population is

regularly undergoing penal rehabilitation, L'payr was still considered something quite special. A current

Gtetan saying, I understand, puts it, "You're like L'payr, fellow—you don't know when to stop!"

Nonetheless, L'payr had reached the point where it was highly important that he did stop. He had

been arrested and convicted for a total of 2,342 felonies, just one short of the 2,343 felonies which, on

Gtet, make one a habitual criminal and, there-fore, subject to life imprisonment. He made a valiant effort

to retire from public life and devote himself to contemplation and good works but it was too late. Almost

against his will, as he insisted to me under examination in my office, he found his mind turning to foul

deeds left undone, illegalities as yet unperpetrated.

And so one day, quite casually—hardly noticing, as it were—he committed an-other major crime.

But this one was so ineffably ugly, involving an offense against the moral code as well as civil legislation,

that the entire community turned against L'payr.

He was caught selling pornography to juvenile Gtetans.

The indulgence that a celebrity may enjoy turned to wrath and utter contempt. Even the Gtetan

Protective Association of Two Thousand Time Losers refused to raise funds for his bail. As his trial

approached, it became obvious to L'payr that he was in for it. His only hope lay in flight.

He pulled the most spectacular coup of his career—he broke out of the hermeti-cally sealed vault in

which he was being guarded around the clock (how he did this, he consistently refused to tell me up to

the time of his lamented demise or whatever you want to call it) and escaped to the spaceport near the

prison. There, he managed to steal aboard the pride of the Gtetan merchant fleet, a newly developed

interstellar ship equipped with two-throttle hyperspace drive.

This ship was empty, waiting for a crew to take it out on its maiden run.

Somehow, in the few hours at his disposal before his escape was known, L'payr figured out the

controls of the craft and managed to lift it off Gtet and into hyper-space. He had no idea at this time that,

since the ship was an experimental model, it was equipped with a transmitting device that kept the

spaceport informed of its location.

Thus, though they lacked the facilities to pursue him, the Gtetan police always knew exactly where

he was. A few hundred amoeboid vigilantes did start after him in old-fashioned, normal-drive ships, but

after a month or so of long and fatiguing interstellar travel at one-hundredth his speed, they gave up and

returned home.

For his hideout, L'payr wanted a primitive and unimportant corner of the galaxy. The region around Sol

was ideal. He materialized out of hyperspace about halfway be-tween the third and fourth planets. But he

did it very clumsily (after all, Hoy, the best minds of his race are just beginning to understand the

two-throttle drive) and lost all of his fuel in the process. He barely managed to reach Earth and come

down.

The landing was effected at night and with all drives closed, so that no one on the planet saw it.

Because living conditions on Earth are so different from Gtet, L'payr knew that his mobility would be

very limited. His one hope was to get help from the inhabitants. He had to pick a spot where possible

contacts would be at maximum and yet accidental discovery of his ship would be at minimum. He chose

an empty lot in the suburbs of Chicago and quickly dug his ship in.

Meanwhile, the Gtetan police communicated with me as the local commanding officer of the Galactic

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William Tenn - Party of the Two Parts

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